The horizon opens like
a zip-lock bag, spits
out the sun, closes again.
Sometimes a stray Spirit
slips out along with it,
given 24 hour reprieve
from the other side.
Elvis popped into my
kitchen yesterday dawn,
sans sequins, hands
moving like graceful
swans as he spoke of
his hip-swiveling, Ed
Sullivan pre-army glory
days; Priscilla; long
blacked out nights with
bought friends and
pink Caddys at Graceland;
his mama...
He told me to set it all down.
He said I should be sure
to add that the best drug
is innocence and that fame
only digs empty holes in
the ground for thousands
to weep over needlessly.
4 comments:
Another wonderful, insightfull poem Pris, affording a different look at the legend. People forget that, in his movies, he was always the good guy in the white suit.
But I didn't know that you were THAR Priscilla!
Damn - my previous comment: THAR should read THAT. I'm ashamed - a rare typo crept under my force-field; just put it down to senility. G.
hi g
That Priscilla was my alter ego :-) And thanks. At one point Elvis was a good singer and performer. When he went to the sequins and Vegas...forget it.
me
Thanks, michael
Poems have been coming more slowly lately, so I'm glad when fresh ones DO come.
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